


Aftermath

by highestkingbambi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Introspection, Set after the season three finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 12:23:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15412851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highestkingbambi/pseuds/highestkingbambi
Summary: Margo deals with the aftermath of the memory wipe and Eliot’s possession.





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> It’s not really a whole fic, just a writing exercise that I wanted to share.

Three turns of the hot tap. One of the cold. Margo lets the water run for a few seconds. She uses the wait to tie her hair up in a messy bun; flyaways refusing to stay put under the straining elastic. Without someone to do her hair daily, it’s time to get it cut; anything but those bangs again. 

Cupping her hands beneath the stream, she splashes the slightly warmer than lukewarm water on her tired face. Looking in the mirror she sees a face she hardly recognises. Lips dry and cracked, skin a mixture of yellow and red undertones, she notices the mascara running down the bags below her eyes. Watery black liquid settles above her cheekbone, waiting for the next splash. 

No cleanser, no scrub, all she has is varying temperatures of water and a desperation to clean it all away. Every part of herself that isn’t Margo to be erased as if it never happened. As if she’d never been someone else. 

The last dregs of makeup removed, she turns off the hot tap, letting it run cold. When she cups her hand beneath the water, her fingers shake. Margo tells herself it’s only from the temperature. Splashing the water on her face, she bristles at the feeling. Pores closing up, she finds a towel and wipes the remaining droplets clear. 

Taking a moment, she stares at herself in the mirror. A shadow of herself, naked but for a crumpled t-shirt; two sizes too big. Her frame juts out in bony angles, curves lost beneath the old cotton. Still, standing there in one of Quentin’s t-shirts, she feels more like the real Margo than in any designer thread she once coveted. The Library made sure of that. 

She pulls her hair out from the bun and lets it fall to her waist in loose chestnut waves. Margo brushes it back over her right shoulder and braces herself for what is waiting for her in the adjoining room. 

Door creaking open, the light from the bathroom illuminates a pathway to the first twin motel bed. Unmade and empty. Exactly as she feels. A shadow stirs on the second bed. Her legs start to falter, heart hoping for something her brain knows won’t happen. She stumbles forward and the shadow moves faster. 

Quentin catches her. 

Margo doesn’t cry. She doesn’t let the tears fall down her face. When Quentin holds her to his chest, she releases silent, motionless sobs. 

“It’s going to be okay,” he says softly. It should be soothing, but his voice is monotone. She can’t see his face but she knows the way his lips turn down. She knows that his eyes are glistening in the way hers can’t. They both know that his words may not be true. There is a good chance nothing will be okay ever again. 

Removing herself from his grasp, Margo makes her way to the second bed. She fumbles for the light, terrified of what she might see. Of any changes or worse—no change at all. The light turns on in an instant, but it feels like a lifetime. There is a lump in her throat, the kind she hasn’t felt in years. It tells her to be afraid. 

This is a different kind of fear. A fear that anger isn’t able to cover. 

Eliot lies prone on the motel bed, his position unchanged since she last saw him. Ever so slightly, his chest rises. Short, slow breaths that have her hold her own. She won’t let herself breathe until he does.

She almost doesn’t notice when Quentin comes up behind her. He’s a ghost wrapping her in his arms as much for his own comfort as he thinks it is for hers. 

“You should get some rest,” she says. Her voice is dry as she clutches her hands to his forearms. As much as she wants him to rest, she’s not ready for him to leave her. She’s not ready to deal with this on her own. 

“You know I can’t,” he replies, tightening his arms around her. “Not while he’s lost in there.” Quentin chokes on his words and it takes everything in her to keep the tears that she doesn’t have from breaking through. Her walls are too strong. They are supposed to be too strong. 

Margo lets go of Quentin’s arm and takes a hold of Eliot’s hand. He feels like ice between her fingers. If she didn’t see him breathing, she would be worrying about the worst. She feels his wrist for a pulse and finds it beating. Faint, but at least it’s there. At least he’s still there.

“We need to keep him warm,” she says, trying to keep her focus on what she can fix and not the hopeless situation before them. 

“The radiator is broken, and we can’t afford to move him,” Quentin says quietly. He’s thought of this already. Having taken on most of the responsibility of caring for Eliot, he’s thought of everything. 

She wants to be grateful. Instead she feels useless. Useless isn’t her style. It’s not her speed. Eliot is as much a part of her as he is of Quentin. 

Slipping from Quentin’s arms, Margo lies on the bed beside Eliot. Curled up around him, offering her limited body heat. She’s reminded of the day they first met, her LA attire nowhere near warm enough for upstate New York—even within the Brakebills wards. Unfathomably tall and still working out his personal style, he repeatedly offered her his thrift store coat. Countering her stubbornness with his own until she gave in and accepted his assistance. 

Before Eliot, she never needed anyone. Her absentee parents prepared her well; despite their best efforts to break her. 

The thought of life without him, of the six months she spent as someone else, not even knowing who he was; that she had someone who actually meant something to her, tears her up inside. She can’t lose him. She won’t. 

She’ll tear the world apart if that’s what it takes to bring him back from the prison inside his mind. 

Quentin takes the duvet from the second bed and covers them with it. He’s so gentle it hurts. She looks up to see him hesitate over where to go, what to do. 

“Lay down,” she orders. Firm words all she has while her body is dedicated to warming Eliot. Doing exactly as he’s told, Quentin lies on the other side of Eliot. Together they wrap their bodies around him beneath the scratchy motel blanket. Quentin offers her his hand, resting over Eliot’s chest and she takes it with grateful reluctance. 

There is no manual for this. No instruction sheet on how to break a mental prison built by a being that terrified the gods. They knew it was a risk when they devised a decoy for the being to jump into. Knowledge limited to the one jump they knew of; caused by the death of the host. At least Eliot wasn’t dead. Only lost. 

“Come back to me,” she whispers into Eliot’s ear, too soft for Quentin to hear. “I don’t want do any of this without you.” 

She can survive without him. They both can. They won’t. Margo squeezes Quentin’s hand like it’s the only thing solid left on Earth. She doesn’t know how, but she’ll bring him back.


End file.
